


Bad dreams are the least of it

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Community: section7mfu, F/M, Gen, Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 03:15:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14632941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Waverly is concerned about the workload on the health of his agents. Illya falls ill.





	Bad dreams are the least of it

**Bad dreams are the least of it**

 

It was a very satisfying explosion but a little too big. He’d been over anxious to ensure the destruction of this facility. Men had been hurt – not badly but it shouldn’t have happened. Illya himself had been blown head over heels to land half-stunned at his partner’s feet.

“A bit of overkill there, partner,” was Napoleon’s only comment as he helped him to his feet.

“Did the job, though, didn’t it?”

“More than adequately. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” he said, shaking his head to clear it.

They left the mess for agents from other sections to deal with and went to the car. Napoleon, looking at Illya’s eyes, refused to let him drive but took the wheel himself to get them back. And, seeing him weave his way across the sidewalk and up the steps of the hotel, he put his shoulder under Illya’s arm and half carried him to their shared room. He ordered a light meal and Illya found even that hard to eat.

He seemed helpless and had to be stripped and tucked into bed. “Don’t whinge,” said Napoleon, when he complained. “Just go to sleep – you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Illya lay there in the dark, awake and hardly breathing. The explosion still sounded in his ears; the memory of flying through the air and seeing others do so flickered across his vision. Napoleon’s breathing had deepened – he, at least, could sleep. Perhaps he was just used to picking up the pieces. It was almost dawn before Illya fell asleep. He was wakened only a couple of hours later but, while it meant he had almost no deep sleep, he suffered no dreams.

Napoleon drove them back to New York and was relieved when his partner dropped into a doze on the journey. They parted at Illya’s apartment building. “Sure you’re OK, old friend?”

“Quite sure… Thanks, Napoleon.” He smiled at Napoleon’s look of surprise. “I mean, thanks for putting up with me,” he said, to Napoleon’s increased wonder.

He replied, merely, “Any time, you know that. See you tomorrow – unless you feel like going out tonight?”

“No. I think I’ll go to bed.”

Napoleon drove away, a little concerned.

oo000oo

“No, you can’t see Mr Waverly, he’s out of the office,” was the answer to all queries, and where he had gone wasn’t divulged. The Section One Chiefs and their immediate assistants had all come to New York to meet at a secret location, away from UNCLE headquarters. High up the agenda was recruitment and the physical and mental health of the field agents.

All the Chiefs had concerns about individuals under them though some were more sceptical than others. Several, like Waverly, had fought in the trenches during the First World War and had first-hand experience of battle fatigue and shell shock. Others pooh-poohed the idea of nervous breakdown but it was clear they hadn’t met survivors whose nightmares had lasted long after – or perhaps especially after – the horrors of the Second World War. If they had ever thought to ask, they would have discovered that European field agents, in particular, had concerns about fathers who had been in the trenches and often relived their experiences in their sleep. Some were even concerned for the safety of their mothers as a result. Older agents who had been transferred from field operations to other sections had seen their own horrors and had yet to discover that they would re-emerge in retirement when they had less to think about.

“My men are fearless and very strong-minded; they can cope,” said one Chief.

“I think you’ll find, with all due respect, that their coping mechanisms are either non-existent or very unhealthy,” replied another.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, just that you suddenly finding them suffering a decline into some kind of physical or even mental illness. Or they start having nightmares which don’t resolve the underlying problem. Or they indulge in drink, drugs, or sex, to take away the anguish.”

“Anguish?”

“What we ask them to do on a regular basis. It’s unnatural. The normal human being can’t remain normal when asked to perform such dangerous tasks over a long period. They should be freed from these duties more frequently.”

Waverly now spoke. “That is why we are here, gentlemen. We do not recruit enough men – or women – of sufficient calibre to take the pressure off the few we do have.”

oo000oo

Everyone was dead – even his best friend – and it was all his fault. He cried out and fell to his knees, his arms round his head; he rolled in his distress over broken glass and bricks. He was sweating, or was it blood? His eyes opened sightlessly and he moaned his grief.

“Hush, sweetheart, shhh.” Someone was stroking his face gently and now cradled him against soft bare skin. He struggled to get free but with a firm touch the stroking moved to his back, calming his quivering nerves and shaking body. He lifted a hand to touch her shoulder.

“Sorry,” he said,” I’m a lousy bedfellow,” and buried his face against her breast, his hair gleaming in the dim light from the window.

“Do you want to tell me?” she asked.

“No… I ought to go – leave you in peace.” He tried to rise but she held him against her.

“Stay. Sleep. You’re safe here – I’ll hold you.”

He lifted his face to kiss her. She put her finger to his lips, “In the morning. Sleep now.”

He turned and was asleep in moments as she curled protectively round him. When she woke again it was just daylight and he was watching her. She put her arm round him. It was risky asking him about himself. “You’ve dreamed like that before,” she said. “Do you have those dreams often?” She felt his embrace tighten momentarily, but he didn’t push her away.

“I don’t know. I don’t always remember.”

“Shouldn’t you talk to someone about it? You can talk to me, if you like.”

“I can’t.”

“There must be someone.”

“I can handle it. I don’t need to talk about it.”

She rose on one elbow. “You do,” she said against his mouth.

He responded, but said, “I’ve got to go. Let me up.”

“You’ve only to ask,” she said, slipping astride him.

oo000oo

Napoleon had his own night terrors, of course. Often it was Illya who had to calm him, as he calmed Illya when occasion arose. It was part of the job – you just had to accept it. When you knew someone as well as he and Illya knew each other, it was easier. There was no judgment, just the understanding that came with profound friendship. It made it possible to do the job. Illya had become almost part of himself. If anything happened to him, it would all be over … he couldn’t carry on without him. He wondered if Illya felt the same. Napoleon had begun to worry about him, though. Illya was looking strained; he had made mistakes recently – just small, almost insignificant mistakes – but Illya didn’t _make_ mistakes.

However, he almost laughed at his friend’s appearance when he arrived in the office. More drained than strained, with the very particular flushed look of someone who has had an active night. “You look like you’re – what shall we say? – running on empty this morning? Who is she?” He said.

Illya gave him a look. “Curiosity killed the cat, Napoleon.”

“Well, I hope you’ve got enough energy for the next job.”

“What is it?”

“Training new recruits.”

Illya groaned, “I forgot,” he said.

“But before we do, you and I need to talk…”

oo000oo

“It was just an extra explosive charge – not a mistake, Napoleon.”

“It’s not the first time. Look, I know you – you’re exhausted. All the time. Making little mistakes. You’re not sleeping and you haven’t been eating properly. That isn’t like you. What’s wrong, Illya?”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Some,” and here Illya smiled a little.

“I mean did you sleep properly when you _were_ asleep? Or did you dream? – have a nightmare, for instance?”

Illya was silent, then he said, “All right, I didn’t sleep well to start with, then yes, I did have a nightmare.”

“And?”

“And I had very sympathetic company.”

“Lucky you, then. Did the sex help?”

“Napoleon…”

“Well?”

“If you _must_ know … she made me go back to sleep instead.”

“She sounds sensible – a nice girl.”

“She is.”

“I’m glad you have someone who knows that sex should be recreational, not a drug to dull the pain.”

“And you should know, Napoleon.”

“I do know.”

“Enough. Don’t we have work to do?”

“We do. We’re teaching the recruits first. It’s going to be a long morning – have you had a proper meal lately? I don’t want you sulking half way through.”

Illya sighed. “I had some leftovers when I got back home this morning.”

“Leftovers? What did I tell you? – you haven’t been eating normally. You never have leftovers. What’s her name, by the way?”

“Cherie … Damn you, Napoleon.”

Napoleon grinned. He knew he’d get an answer if he distracted him enough.

oo000oo

Down in the training area, the recruits, as so often, were lively, brash and over-confident; just out of Survival School and impatient to get out into the field. To be tested by two famously successful top agents was the icing on the cake – at least it was till they saw them.

“They’re old,” one whispered to another.

“Over thirty, and don’t they look it!”

“I thought these two guys were the best.”

“They’re supposed to be. “

The two ancients divided them into teams and presented them with seemingly simple role-play. The active-agent team was given a mission to undertake and had to get past another team who were separately given the very different role of innocents, not members of Thrush. Apart from acting ability, it was a test of intelligence, psychology, persuasion and, ultimately, restraint.

The active team was gung-ho and keen to demonstrate courage and a determination to destroy the enemy. Their guns were loaded with small foam capsules representing bullets and when, at the end, they learned that in their enthusiasm they had taken innocent lives, the shock was immense.

Napoleon challenged them on what had gone wrong. “Why did you assume they were Thrush?”

“It was a training session - what else could they be?”

Napoleon smiled. “You’re not in Survival School now. This is a test for what happens in real life. On any operation, you are going to be among ordinary people, and ordinary people sometimes behave very suspiciously for all sorts of reasons. They might set off in one direction then remember they had to pick up something specially from the store, and change direction quite suddenly.” He looked round at frowning faces. “You’ve been taught how to tail someone whom you would expect might make such abrupt changes of direction – because it would just confirm your suspicions. But you should now recognise how wrong you might be and why you need to think about when to use sleep darts.”

“What if you _do_ kill an innocent by mistake?”

“You have to live with it,” said Illya from the back of the group.

“No punishment?”

“Not from a court of law, no, but if your defence is inadequate you’ll be out of UNCLE.”

They had turned to look at him. Perhaps it was the quality of light in the room, but he seemed very pale.

“Have you ever killed an innocent by mistake?” someone asked, courageously.

“Once deliberately, like you just now, thinking he was the enemy. There have been others who were unfortunate enough to be caught in crossfire or an explosion…” he stopped, breathless.

Napoleon spoke again, and they turned back. “It’s a risk we all take; it’s a risk we all have to be aware of constantly.”

“How do you live with having committed… murder?”

“Not murder unless you intended it, like Thrush does,” said Napoleon. “Killing anyone is definitely not something you should _want_ to do – but if you have to do it, it’s not something to be either proud of or in despair about.” He paused and looked around at the faces before him. “The hard part of the job, what makes you jumpy or careless enough to kill by mistake, is dealing with constant stress, the constant adrenaline rush and the subsequent let down, being constantly on the alert, and being constantly afraid for someone else’s life.”

“Not your own?”

“Of course your own. But the fear of losing a friend is the worst; killing an innocent is next worst.”

He now asked them to think about how they had coped with the stresses in their own lives up to now. Some had lost a parent or a sibling; some had witnessed a crime or a traffic accident in which people had died.

“Be aware. The work of a Section 2 agent is like that – but sometimes ten times worse,” said Illya.

“Ten times worse?” someone said.

“More than ten times. You’ll be the one _responsible_ for some of it, _and_ for how to get out of it. You’ll have to get others out of it to save their lives, and you might be so badly injured you can hardly move. Then you have to depend on someone else – that’s hard too.”

They stared at Illya, whose pallor had increased as he spoke. Napoleon watching him said, “OK, guys, let’s take a break. Go for coffee, think about what we’ve been saying. Be back here in half an hour.” He waited till they had all filed out before taking his friend by the arm and shaking him slightly.

“Illya, you look terrible. I’m taking you to Medical.”

“I’m all right…” he said and sat down suddenly.

“No. Come on. Something’s got to you – or was it too much Cherie? I’ll tell the kids you’ve got flu.”

oo000oo

The nurse on reception looked up in surprise when they came in. It was unknown for either of them to come voluntarily. Napoleon pushed Illya into a seat and said “I think he’s ill.”

Illya whispered, “No…” then keeled over, and fell to the floor which caused great consternation and got him far more attention than he would ordinarily have wanted.

Napoleon reluctantly left him in the hands of the medics and returned to the training room where the recruits had gathered and were talking among themselves a little heatedly. They looked up when Napoleon entered. He was outwardly calm but held himself stiffly.

“Ah, sorry guys, we’ll have to curtail the session today. Mr Kuryakin has been taken ill. I –  ah – I need to check what might have happened to him to cause it.  I’d like you to continue on your own; I suggest you go over that first exercise together and work out where you should have changed tactics. I’ll see you again tomorrow.” He turned and walked out of the room leaving the recruits looking at each other, eyebrows raised.

“Is that what it’s all about? You even need to watch each other’s backs inside headquarters?”

“I’d say it was more that you just _want_ to watch your partner’s back. Period,” someone sagely remarked.

oo000oo

Mr Waverly returned to headquarters in thoughtful mood. He entered his domain and sat down thankfully, taking up his pipe and filling it to aid his meditations. He had finally got the pipe drawing to his satisfaction when Lisa Rogers came in bearing a tray with his tea.

“Thank you, Miss Rogers,” he said. “Is there anything requiring my immediate attention?”

“No, sir – oh, well perhaps there is. Just so that you know, Mr Kuryakin has been taken ill. He’s in medical and Mr Solo is with him.”

“Ill? What’s wrong with him?”

“He collapsed during a break – he and Mr Solo were teaching the new recruits this morning.  It might be flu, but there were other symptoms. Like exhaustion,” she added a little accusingly.

Waverly looked at her. “Exhaustion,” he repeated. “What’s he been doing?”

“They were both on a difficult operation last week. He was almost caught in the explosion he had set. There has been a suggestion that he was careless. They’ve both been on back-to-back missions for some time, now, sir.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you, Miss Rogers.”

He watched her leave the room and sat pensively staring at his cooling tea. His pipe had gone out.

oo000oo

Illya was awake but couldn’t sit up. “Napoleon, I don’t feel well,” he said miserably. “What’s the matter with me?” He had failed to take in anything he had been told by the doctor.

“The doctor said it’s a number of things,” Napoleon told him. “Exhaustion, dehydration, a bit of anaemia, high blood pressure, fast heartbeat; low vitamin D, B12, and I don’t know what …”

“Oh, so I’m going to live?” said Illya.

“And, as a result, your immune system may have allowed you to pick up a virus – some sort of flu.”

“How long will I have to stay here?”

“You’ll stay till you can sit up and throw a plate. I’m not taking you home with me if it’s flu, chum.”

Illya smiled a little at that.

“This is nature’s way of telling you to stop,” Napoleon said sententiously.

Illya perked up a little with irritation. “Don’t be pompous. It’s not just me, Napoleon. We’ve both been bad, lately. Look at the bags under your eyes. Remember the last nightmare you had?”

“I do and I’m glad it was you there and not _my_ date.”

“Worried about your image?”

“No, but I know I can trust you to deal with it.”

“Thanks. Why don’t you get the doctors to send you home, Napoleon? Get some rest.”

The doctor coming in at this moment heard these words. “Good idea, Mr Solo. One of you on the sick list is quite enough – we don’t want you both in here. Go home – and both of you get some sleep. I’ll square it with Mr Waverly.”

“Square what with Mr Waverly?” said that gentleman also entering the room and startling all of them.

“These two agents are exhausted, sir. Mr Kuryakin is ill and Mr Solo looks like he could be next. I’m sending him home.”

Waverly looked hard at both agents, noting the ashen face of one and the tired eyes of both. They epitomised the problem he had been discussing with his fellow Chiefs. Nothing was worth the risk of wasting the lives of such men. Probably Thrush agents suffered in the same way – he hoped so.

“I’d like the psychiatrist to come and have a word with you, Mr Kuryakin,” he said.

“What! Why? I mean …”

“Just for a chat.”

Illya groaned. “What about Napoleon?”

“Mr Solo, too. Tomorrow. This is not just about you – it’s about finding out how to keep everyone fit. Too many of you are having breakdowns and we want to know why.”

The two agents looked at each other and rolled their eyes. “We’ve been teaching new recruits about this for years,” said Napoleon. “But there aren’t enough of them. It’s the workload – we just need more people.”

“Yes indeed. I know that, but until we get them we need to keep all of you in good health.”

The doctor said, “These two need a complete break, now, sir.”

Waverly sat down and said, “A complete break? – how long would you suggest, doctor?”

The doctor scratched his head. “It depends what they’re going to do during it,” he said. “Doing something completely different, even for a fairly short time, is as beneficial as a long rest.”

“Good idea. Something unaggressive and calming – a two-week course in cordon bleu cookery or art appreciation.”

“Or beekeeping,” said the doctor, who was a devotee of Conan Doyle.

The glares of two top Section 2 agents had not the slightest effect on their Chief or the doctor, who went out together to discuss it further.

The two men looked at each other. “Doing something completely different …?” said Illya. “It might mean you’ll have to manage without alcohol or women.”

“They don’t count.”

Illya lay back and smiled. “You can learn to cook and I’ll go round the art galleries.”

“I _can_ cook – you can learn to do that while _I_ go round them ... appreciating things.”

“Yes of course, I might have known. All those nudes.”

“All right, we’ll both go.”

“Deal. What about the bees?”

“Damn the bees – I’m not ready to retire yet. Are you?”

“Nope.”

ooo0000ooo

 

 

 

 


End file.
